


Your Pain Is Mine

by joonfired



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Dad, Angst and Feels, Baby Yoda gets hurt, Bounty Hunters, Canon Divergence - Sanctuary (The Mandalorian TV), Child Injury, Found Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, I tried to keep this from being shippy, ManDadlorian, Omera is a blessing, Other, Pain, Parent-Child Relationship, Prompt Fic, Protective Mandalorian, The Author Regrets Everything, Worried Mandalorian, and the Mandalorian loses his mind, but whoops it's slightly shippy, so I have delivered it, this was just gonna be a one shot but watch me write a whole novel of whump, y'all asked for pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joonfired/pseuds/joonfired
Summary: Cara is late, the bounty hunter takes the shot, and everything unravels.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Winta (Star Wars), Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian) & Omera (Star Wars), Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Cara Dune & Omera (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wiccanfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiccanfangirl/gifts).



> **Prompt by wiccanfangirl**: _Imagine if in episode 4 when the assassin was taking the shot, Cara Dune was too little too late to stop him. What would have happened? How would the Mandalorian react?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for the pain I'm about to deliver

Her hands framed his helmet, anchoring him to her and he didn’t want to leave.

He wanted to plant himself in this peaceful village and forget the blood and danger of his past. He wanted time to ponder the intricacies of the Way and find his own path in it. He wanted to be content here.

He wanted.

But then the shot came.

The child screamed, its pain carving sharp blades into the Mandalorian’s heart. He recognized the child’s cry even though he’d never heard it before, and went numb as he watched the small figure crumple into its bloodstained robes. He was still numb as he and Omera ran towards it, the woman tucked under his arm and guarded by the beskar he wore.

This couldn’t be the end.

“Stars, no,” he whispered as he knelt over the tiny body.

The rest of the village was in chaos, farmers running for shelter with their untouched children. But Omera stayed by his side, caring hands reaching for the unmoving child.

There was another shot, but it did not strike. The Mandalorian knew he should go and protect, make sure the invisible threat was neutralized. But he could not move.

Omera picked up the child carefully, and the child keened in pain.

“Shh, dear one,” she crooned in a tear-choked voice. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

As she comforted the child, the Mandalorian checked its robes with shaking hands. Where was the blood coming from?

When his fingers touched the child’s right shoulder, it screamed again and jerked away. The tips of his gloves were tinged with its pinkish blood. Omera met his visored gaze with matching worry, her dark eyes glistening.

One more shot echoed from the wooded perimeter, centering the Mandalorian’s stormy emotions.

“Get inside,” he monotoned, rising to his feet and unslinging his pulse rifle.

He ran for the woods, his heartbeat thundering louder than his footsteps. He trembled with rage that he needed to direct at whoever had injured his Foundling. And when he entered the treeline, he found his targets.

There were seven of them, but three lay fallen by Cara Dune. The ex-shocktrooper had their attention, which explained why the village had been spared from any further shots. She battled the remaining four around sheltering tree trunks, too close for blasters.

The Mandalorian didn’t need weapons to kill today.

He charged forward, spearing one hunter through the throat with the pronged tip of his rifle. He drove the stunned body into a tree, the body convulsing with electricity. He then yanked the rifle away and let the slain hunter collapse to the ground, pivoting his attention to the next hunter.

The Mandalorian swung the butt of his rifle into the side of the figure’s torso, earning a yelp of pain and the sound of snapping bones. The hunter bent over on reflex, which meant its head was at the perfect height for him to punch.

He felled it with a blow he barely felt, stepping over the body to grab another by the arm.

Yanking on his hold, he twisted the screaming bounty hunter over his shoulder and loosening its limb from the socket. It fell with robotic hisses through the pointed mask they all wore, obviously clanned up for the hunt.

The Mandalorion crushed its screams with a savage stomp of his beskar-weighted boots, pulping the hunter’s head into the ground.

He spun around at the battle-heightened sense of someone behind him, only for his fist to be caught by Cara Dune. She held his instinctive struggle until he realized the bounty hunters were dead, corpses twisted in broken pieces by his rage and her strength.

“It’s done,” Cara said, squeezing his fist before releasing it.

Something in her tone told him that she knew why he’d rushed at them so fiercely, but she didn’t ask the question haunting her eyes with sadness. Not yet. They didn’t want it to be true.

The beeping of a fob led them to a body, which Cara rolled over with a contemptuous kick to reveal a Guild tracker. Of course they were here for the kid.

“You or him?” Cara asked.

“Him,” the Mandalorian replied, crushing the fob into silence.

He had to get back to the kid. He needed to know.

He didn’t want to know.

“What happened?” Cara asked, but he was already running back to the village.

He found where the kid was by the huddle of villagers outside the barn, which parted for him at his approach. Inside, Omera held the now-quiet child, looking up at him with unwanted sorrow.

The Mandalorian tugged his gloves off and threw them aside, reaching for the child with bare fingers. Its eyes were closed but still twitching with life, and it whimpered softly when he touched the soft fuzz atop its head.

“The arm,” Omera murmured, pulling back the child’s robe.

A tsunami of rage crashed through the Mandalorian again as he bent over the injury, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“He’ll live,” Omera continued softly.

He should have been grateful for that . . . and he was. But as the Mandalorian looked at the tiny arm attached by only a sliver of flesh, blackened blaster burns bubbled over the soft green skin, he felt mostly guilt.

Because of him, this infant would grow and live life without an arm. Maybe it would remember this trauma or only know it from stories. But  _ he _ would know and it was his fault.

Cara entered the barn and her shoulders slumped when she saw the wound. But she walked up to the Mandalorian and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, fingers digging into his taut muscles and grounding him.

“It’s not your fault,” she bit out, shaking him a little.

“It is,” he corrected, his voice crawling broken from his throat.

“We have to remove it,” Omera said gently.

He knew that. He knew it the moment he’d seen the injury.

“I’ll hold him,” he said, taking the child carefully.

As the child wailed and thrashed against the ministrations, the Mandalorian wept behind his mask. He held the child, murmuring in scattered pieces of Basic and Mando’a combined until it was over and the bandages were in place. The child still whimpered softly, no doubt ignorant of why it was hurt but knowing only the pain.

The child’s pain slipped into the Mandalorian’s heart and it  _ ached _ .

Cara had left to double-check the perimeter and surrounding area for more hunters. Omera stayed and sat down next to him, brushing sweat-dampened hair away from her features. She’d done well tending to the child, and he did not have words for his gratitude.

He never had enough words for her.

She took his hand, warm fingers curling over his and holding tight. He breathed out shakingly, looking down at the pain-scrunched features of the child. He needed to wash the tears from his face, but that would wait.

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated to him.

He couldn’t believe her.

“I should have known better than to lower my guard,” he rasped.

“Do you blame me?” Omera asked, her grip on his hand loosening. “If there is any guilt to carry, I should bear it.”

“No. I have been aware of all my choices.” He sighed. “I could have chosen to avoid you, but I didn’t.”

“This world is not kind to us,” she said. “Even more so to the innocent.”

“All of the Guild is looking for him,” the Mandalorian confessed. “I . . . I thought we had time. I wanted us to have time.”

“Do not feel guilty for desiring a quiet life,” Omera said, brushing her thumb over and over his knuckles. “We are lucky enough to have found one here, as best we can. You will find yours one day, too.”

“I hope that to be true,” he whispered.

He felt stripped of his armor in this moment, all of him bare to her eyes. Even in his beskar she could see to the core of him and he treasured the feeling of being known. He’d been alone so long that one taste of belonging had made him weak, the cost of it pale and small in his arms.

“How can you stop them from coming after you?” Omera ventured.

“I don’t know. I . . .” his breath hitched. “The one who wants him is Imperical.”

“I see.” The constant continuing touch of her fingers across his bare knuckles was wonderful and terrible. “That is a big war to fight, Mandalorian.”

“It is,” he agreed heavily.

Omera stood up then, bending down to press a kiss to the top of his helmet. He shivered minutely under the gesture, once again wishing there was no barriers between them except air.

He was so weak before her.

“If you desire an army,” she said, pulling away to look deep into his visor, “you only have to ask.”

He wouldn’t ask. He could not endanger anyone else. He would keep running and guard the child. That was all he knew; that was all he could do.

She left him alone with the now-sleeping child, closing the barn door behind her. And in the darkness of the barn, he removed his helmet and breathed until he’d gathered his internal walls around him once more.

That was all he knew.

That was the Way.

He hoped it would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about the line Omera says "you could have an army"  
> and realized I could go places with that  
> goodness knows I'm writing way too much in this fandom  
> but watch me write more *laughs manically*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The child develops a fever from its wound and the Mandalorian turns once more to Omera for help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more angst, sick baby, comforting Omera, and a fretful Mando

The child sickened before he could leave.

He woke to the small body shaking against him, sweat shining in tiny droplets over its heated skin. It did not open its eyes, but its gaze moved under the translucent lids in feverish anguish.

He did not put on much, since he had not taken much off before falling into a troublesome rest before he had decided to leave. He only donned his helmet before taking the child in his arms and striding anxiously through the night to Omera’s door.

She appeared soon after his quiet, desperate knocks, blinking sleep away as she tucked her sleep-woven hair from her features. She took in his barely-armored appearance —helmet over his dark undershirt, beskar-plated legs, and bare hands—before her attention focused on the shivering child.

“Oh, the poor thing is in shock,” she murmured, taking the child from his arms and laying a practiced hand against its forehead. “If cared for properly, the fever will run its course and he will be fine.”

“He’s a child who lost an arm,” the Mandalorian said. “He’s not fine.”

“He will be,” Omera soothed.

She entered her home and then beckoned for him to follow, but he hesitated on the threshold.

Until now there had been distinct separations he could lean against, to keep himself from weakening further than was proper. He needed those walls to stay true to the Way he was now finding himself so easily losing.

But he was not here for his own desires. He was here for the child, his Foundling, his kin. The separations would still remain, he told himself as he stepped into the warmth of Omera’s home. She held a finger against her lips and then tilted her head in the direction of a curtained section, which he surmised was Winta’s sleeping area and who still slept.

Of course Omera’s daughter would still be sleeping; it was the dark of late night and early morning meeting together in a few hours of true silence.

“All I can do is give him a tonic against infection and to hopefully speed the process to break the fever,” Omera whispered, moving about the corner of the room that was clearly meant for cooking. She balanced the child almost effortlessly in one arm while pulling dried plants and odd tinctures from a storage bin with her other hand.

The Mandalorian hovered anxiously nearby, captivated by the way she handled almost every problem of the child’s with such grace and ease. And then he found himself distracted by the fall of her hair against her back, lamplight catching on the dark waves.

Desire was such a sneaky thing.

He cleared his throat quietly, turning to inspect a sputtering holo-pic of Omera spinning a much younger Winta around in a large grassy field. They were laughing in a loop of such pure happiness it made him ache. For the few children he knew and the child he'd been did not have such memories to look back on.

"That is Naboo," Omera said behind him.

The Mandalorian twitched his helmet towards her, a small reaction but large for him who did his best to not be easily startled.

"Winta was born there, but she has no memory of it," she continued softly.

He was staring helplessly at her again as she spoke. She held the child so tenderly, swaying a little in a maternal rocking motion. And when she glanced up at him with a soft smile, he knew himself lost.

"I've given him the tonic," she said, guessing his visored look to be worry for the sick child.

"That's good," he replied.

Omera then took another look at his appearance, lingering on the unseemly lack of beskar. His bare hands curled reflexively before he forced them to hang in awkward laxness at his sides.

"Is it uncomfortable to sleep in your armor?" she asked.

"A little," he said. And then he added impulsively, "I haven't slept in my armor here since the raiders."

The Mandalorian wondered if she knew the importance of such an action, since it was the Way to only lower your guard when absolutely certain such a choice was not foolish in any way. Mandalorians only removed their armor in solitude or surrounded by peace, and the latter was his reason.

"I'm glad we could offer you a place for that comfort," is all she said, and did not revisit the subject.

The child whimpered softly in her arms, the small body twitching restlessly. Its remaining arm fell from the swaddling, its closed eyes squinching and fluttering in distress.

"Shh, little one," Omera crooned, stroking the top of its head. "I know. I know. I'm here." She glanced up at the Mandalorian. "We're here, dear one."

"Is he okay?" the Mandalorian stepped closer to peer at the child.

And was suddenly flung back with an invisible force at the same time the child wailed. Omera made a soft shriek of surprise, looking from the child to the Mandalorian as he lay in a stunned sprawl.

"Mom?" Winta poked her head out from her curtained section, blinking sleepily.

"It's okay," Omera replied.

But she was still looking at the whimpering child with something close to awe on her features.

"Impossible . . ." she murmured.

The Mandalorian began getting to his feet, which then drew the attention of Winta. She darted out of from the curtain towards him, bare feet padding against the floor and white sleeping garment fluttering as she slammed against him and wrapped her arms around his exposed beskar-less torso.

"I'm sorry your son is hurt," the girl said against his stomach. "We just wanted to play near the ponds."

Oh, she thought herself to blame! A sudden rush of emotion swept through him and he patted her head in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

"It's not your fault," he said. "Uh, that shot could have been made from any angle no matter where you were playing."

Omera suddenly cleared her throat, and when he looked at her she tipped her head in a questioning manner.

Ah, yes. Perhaps that hadn't been the best thing to say.

"Um, it's . . . it's going to be fine," he said. "You can play wherever you want because I'm going to protect you both."

The Mandalorian didn't know where that sudden promise had come from nor why he'd decided to make it. But he had spoken, he had given a promise to guard, and now he would have to keep it.

This is the Way.

And this time keeping it mirrored his desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mando got a hug!! ( ◜‿◝ )♡


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The child is still sick and bounty hunters attack the village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pain continues . . . ?
> 
> sorta

The child’s fever broke a few hours later.

When some of the pain smoothed from its features and it stilled into true sleep, Omera went to tuck Winta back into bed. The Mandalorian held the child once more, his body propped at a weary angle against the wall.

“But it’s going to be morning soon!” Winta complained as her mother guided her back to her sleeping area. “It’s almost time for me to be awake.”

“Do you see dawn starting outside?” Omera asked.

“No.”

“Then it is still time for you to sleep.”

After several more minutes of soft, murmuring conversation, Omera reemerged from behind Winta’s curtain. She went to a bench near the doorway and motioned for the Mandalorian to join her. He pushed heavily away from the wall, careful to keep his steps quiet for Winta’s sake.

“How is he doing?” she asked.

“Sleeping. Which is fine . . .” He tipped the small bundle in his arms towards her. “Right?”

Omera leaned closer and shifted the blanket away from the child’s face so she could brush her fingers over the small hairy bumps on its forehead, pausing a moment to check its temperature.

“He seems fine for now,” she murmured.

She sat so close to him that he felt the heat of her presence shivering over his skin. Her head hovered above his shoulder and he wondered if she would stay there, if she would rest against him.

He wanted her to rest against him.

“Are you tired?” Omera asked, turning her caring attention to him now.

“I’m fine,” he replied instinctively.

But as if by mentioning it, exhaustion suddenly pulled at him. His entire body wanted to let go and rest.

Omera smiled. “Are you?”

“ . . . no,” he confessed.

Honesty made him feel too vulnerable. It felt reckless and dangerous . . . but also relieving.

“Here,” she slipped her hands slowly around the sleeping child, taking the bundled baby from his arms, “get some sleep.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, leaning his helmet against the wall.

~

The child was missing when he woke up.

This spawned a moment of panicked confusion as he straightened up with a sharp inhalation, helmet swinging in wide, sweeping searches. His gaze found Omera standing by the table, hands busy with a knife and thick greens she was cutting into bite-sized pieces.

When she smiled at him, it eased his concern because he knew she wouldn’t let the child come to any harm.

“How long?” he asked.

“A few hours,” she replied, scooping the cut greens into a large pan.

“The kid?”

She tipped her chin towards a basket set on the counter to the side. “Still sleeping.”

He nodded and began the process of stretching to his feet, stiff and sore from his awkward sleeping position. Omera pushed a plate of food towards him when he walked up, and then wiped her hands along the soiled apron over her clothes.

“I’ll stand by the door and make sure no one bothers you,” she said.

“No, I’ll, uhhh” —he took the plate, the touch of cool ceramic reminding him of how underdressed he was— “take this back to the barn.”

“I see,” Omera replied, glancing down at his bare hands. “The village is mostly awake, but they should be in the ponds by now.”

He nodded once more, and then left.

But he wasn’t able to eat, because just as he set the plate down in the barn and was preparing to remove his helmet, Cara walked in.

“Bad time?” she asked.

“That depends,” he drawled. “What is it?”

“Not much.” She shrugged, then reached into her pocket and tossed a smashed tracking fob at him. “Found another hunter snooping around just before dawn. Four-eyed Aqualish.”

“Give me three minutes,” he said, turning from the food and towards his abandoned gear.

“Relax, I already set up scanners.” Cara leaned a shoulder against the doorway of the barn. “Take ten minutes. Eat. Then gear up. I’ll meet you inside the forest perimeter.”

“Fine,” he relented, glaring at her through his helmet even though he knew she was right.

But he felt so kriffing nervous with all these hunters sniffing around. It wasn’t a smart move sitting tight here, putting all these villagers at risk . . . but he also couldn’t risk the child’s health, either. Not yet.

So he took five minutes to scarf down pan-browned krill that looked more purple than blue after being cooked, and was still chewing the last bite as he donned the rest of his gear. His breath smelled fishy as he hurried back to Omera’s house to catch her up on the news, and by the time he met up with Cara, he’d resolved himself to seafood breath for the entire day.

“What’s the plan?” she asked as they patrolled the village perimeter again. “Hang on, there’s another scanner” —she pointed up at a small round disc set against the bark of a tree branch— “there.”

“They already know we’re here and the position isn’t changing like it would if the kid hadn’t been hit,” he said, half-focused on the conversation as he inspected the computerized red print-trails zig-zagging throughout the forest with his helmet scanner. “Word of that might spread through the Guild.”

“Might not,” Cara countered.

“Doesn’t mean they’re going to stop coming here,” the Mandalorian continued with a sigh he regretted as soon as krill-breath assaulted his nostrils.

“We could take turns in the village.”

“That’s pretty far to provide backup on either end.”

Cara sighed in loud, intended exasperation. “Fine. So we send one of the villagers with a comm-piece. Make it look like they’re taking some vacation, some vent-off after working here in this isolated farm. Is that a better plan?”

“What do you think?” he asked. “There’s two of us with any real training —”

“Three.”

The Mandalorian tilted his head towards Cara at a questioning angle.

“Omera,” she clarified. “Don’t know where she got it, but that woman knows what she’s doing with a blaster.”

There was  _ something else _ in her tone that suggested more meaning than proficiency with weapons, but he ignored that . . . mostly.

“That’s true,” he agreed.

His mind drifted back to when he’d first realized her fighting skill and how that had made her permanently stand-out to him. She’d be kind at first, yes, but it was her warrior spirit that finalized his interest.

“Say, how many times a day do you think hunters are gonna find us?” Cara was frowning at the scanner pad she’d pulled from her belt. “It hasn’t even been half a day since the last one.”

“Where?”

The Mandalorian stepped close to look at the scanner. There was a cluster of red activity near the southwest section of the village that quickly faded away, though the data still flashed for a break in the perimeter.

“Let’s go,” he said, unholstering his blaster and breaking into a jog. 

“Thanks for roping me into this.” Cara called after him. “This is much more interesting than pit fights!”

**~**

When they broke the perimeter again, they saw the chaos in the village.

Krill farmers ran for hiding while some took the opposite path of action and tackled the armored figures of what looked to be Trandoshans. But the fighters didn’t get very far with the hunters, who tossed them aside as they stalked through the village, large heads turning in wide sweeps, obviously looking for the child.

“Well kriff me,” Cara muttered, unslinging her heavy gun from her back.

“Too interesting for you?” the Mandalorian drawled, motioning for the villagers to back away as they entered the village behind the hunters.

“Nah,” she retorted with a fierce grin. “It’s just going to hurt like hell.”

Getting punched by a Trandoshan did hurt like hell.

The Mandalorian got one shot off, one hunter down, before the group of about ten strong turned on them as a unit. A rock-like fist slammed into his unprotected side and all of his breath rushed out in a painful huff as he collapsed under the force of the blow.

He didn’t have time to catch his breath before the attacker was snarling atop him, fist raised for another blow, this time to his helmet. The Mandalorian blocked it . . . but barely.

Fighting them was like fighting something two times bigger. Even blasts from his flamethrower wasn’t much of a deterrent, and they didn’t go down easily.

“Get to the kid!” Cara roared at him.

The Mandalorian stumbled away from the fight, seeing Cara on the ground with her legs wrapped around a Trandoshans head. With a twist of her thighs, the hunter went limp and she grabbed another by the ankle, yanking it down and using that leverage to haul herself up to punch it in the toothy face.

“Go!” she yelled. “I’m good!”

And so he ran . . . but not fast enough.

Because just as he sprinted around the corner of the barn, Omera’s house in sight, he saw two Trandoshans kick the door down and enter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly I really don't have much of a plot here yet??

**Author's Note:**

> please keep the prompts coming  
> they're feeding my creativity


End file.
